


A Helping Hand

by x_los



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1428919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Any Doctor/Any Master: One has the other held captive, is watching him on a security camera and wanking. Anything OTHER THAN on the Valiant." Set during <i>Frontier in Space</i>. (a tidied old sizeofthatthing kinkmeme fic, original here: <a href="http://sizeofthatthing.livejournal.com/1620.html?thread=1584724#t1584724">http://sizeofthatthing.livejournal.com/1620.html?thread=1584724#t1584724</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Title: A Helping Hand  
> Author: [](http://x-los.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://x-los.livejournal.com/)**x_los**  
>  Rating: NC-17  
> Pairing: Three/Delgado!Master  
> Summary: "Any Doctor/Any Master: One has the other held captive, is watching him on a security camera and wanking. Anything OTHER THAN on the Valiant." Set during _Frontier in Space_. (a tidied old sizeofthatthing kinkmeme fic, original here: <http://sizeofthatthing.livejournal.com/1620.html?thread=1584724#t1584724>)  
>  Beta: [](http://elviaprose.livejournal.com/profile)[**elviaprose**](http://elviaprose.livejournal.com/) , [](http://aralias.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://aralias.livejournal.com/)**aralias**
> 
> ***
> 
>  

‘Why I’m still alive’ indeed, the Master scoffed. He was only half paying attention to _The War of the Worlds_ \--a novel he’d picked up (because the Doctor held Wells in such high esteem) while stuck on Earth (where he’d never have been at all, if the Doctor hadn’t managed to get himself exiled there). And the Doctor had the nerve to blink up at him with bovine stupidity and wonder why the Master hadn’t gotten around to killing him? _Idiot_.

The Doctor had gone quiet, but Miss Grant’s voice droned from the CCTV feedback monitor. She detailed (with admirable feeling) the stresses incumbent on her as the Doctor’s pet human. Given that it was nearly impossible for him to be simultaneously conscious and silent, the poor Doctor was probably already asleep. But Miss Grant was apparently indefatigable. The Brigadier never gave her the days off she wanted: the world had a right to know. Without looking at the image, the Master reached up and turned Miss Grant down to a barely-audible murmur—he’d see how long it took her to run out of steam.

He still wasn’t able to focus on the novel. The Doctor had looked very well indeed today, taken out of his ridiculous prison uniform and reinstalled in his proper clothing. He’d even managed to thank the Master for the opportunity to shower and dress. The glib, almost mocking gratitude was better than the Doctor’s usual curt surliness. The Doctor _could_ be reasonable, if he was of a mind to be, and the Master’s own mind lingered on the way the Doctor had struggled and strained against his bindings in the prison warden’s office. Hardly noticeable, but the Master had been watching the Doctor closely. There, a twitch in his shoulder, a dart of pain across his mouth—the Doctor had tried to swallow it, and had almost managed.

He was close. Years in which he’d had no trace, no whisper of the Doctor’s whereabouts, when the man was surely galaxies and millennia away, were now as inconsequential as a catastrophe avoided. The Doctor was a single floor away. If the Master had been left a trifle agitated by their confrontation, then how much more so must the Doctor have been, left twitching, pacing a cell, beholden to the Master for his continued survival? The Master found him exquisite when he was angry (even if he wished that anger wasn’t so often directed towards ruining the Master’s plans--plans he’d made for _them_ in the first place). It was easy to picture the slight flush of the Doctor’s face—garden-variety vexation, but how easily that touch of red yielded to the capable imagination, melting into something more interesting. On the backs of the Master’s eyelids, vivid as cinema screens in stereo, the Doctor’s chest pumped in its stirred rise and fall. Without volition the Master painted it into the deeper troughs and higher crests of arousal. Then the Master realized that for once, practiced as his mind was at arranging this sort of tableaux, it wasn’t necessary.

At the prompting of a few keystrokes, the secondary security monitor obligingly played back the CCTV footage of just their conversation. Another tap, and it offered the scene on a repeating loop. The Doctor’s defiant glare up at the Master, the fey tilt of his head, the indignant rise of his voice, the touch of joking complicity in his ‘stolen, of course.’ The way his eyes focused entirely on the Master, as if he were the only thing the Doctor thought important enough to watch. The way the Doctor’s fingers drifted up as he spoke, tapping his chin and pressing against his lips as they parted to address the Master, fingertips seeming almost as if they might slink into the dark of his mouth. Dropping in a guilty flutter into his lap when he demanded the Master tell them where he was taking them.

The Master was aware of his own hand, in a distant way. It was kneading his thigh in the stead of the hands on the screen, which lay now in the Doctor’s lap, stiff and smothered. Curling small like things denied because the Doctor _wanted_ to touch him, and yet wouldn’t allow himself to indulge what was between them. But surely, if properly encouraged, the Doctor would uncoil his long, elegant fingers.

The Master’s own fingers skated up over his pelvic bone as the footage clicked over and began again. Jo’s low-volume monologue droned on, ignored, in the background.

The Doctor would be less tentative than this—his Doctor was never tentative. Enthusiastic, desperate even, he could be eager to make up for the slights, the indignities he’d put the Master through. Without further teasing preamble, the Master gripped himself through the fabric of his suit. His fingers were greedy as the Doctor’s should be, and he freed himself with the Doctor’s quick, impulsive physicality. He closed his eyes and leaned back into the leather console chair, letting his head loll and letting out a soundless, luxuriant breath.

The Doctor would be ardent, but not rushed. Long, slow strokes, rolling his palm up from base to tip, using his hands before he gave the Master his mouth. A light laugh when the Master insisted on more; a teasing comment about his impatience; a sultry, reassuring reminder that they had all night. They had all of every night, in fact. (The Master unbuttoned his flies, drew out his cock. The hum of the Doctor’s recorded voice is coaxing.) And when the Master relaxed into the Doctor’s hands, content to be drawn along at the Doctor’s pace, he’d be rewarded with the flat of the Doctor’s tongue across the tip of his cock (he licked his own palm wet and bit his lower lip around the light hiss as he applied it). The Doctor would kiss him, warm, before dropping back down. Sly, dear mouth around his cock, firm lips tight on the base of him. “Doctor.” He would say it aloud, he did say it aloud, and he’d pull away from that swollen, lust-dark mouth. “Mm, Doctor.”

The Doctor would know without having to be persuaded that it was justice, then, to let the Master bend him over the room’s idiotic, primitive control panel. Instrumentation from the panels digging into his front through his green velvet coat, he’d moan demonstratively as the Master fucked him. Slow at first because it had been so long, and he would be as tight as he’d been the first time, _god_ yes, but then faster, the Doctor would want faster, the Doctor would ask for it, the Doctor would plead for it, and the drawling rhythm of the Master’s hand’s came on surer, came on faster, the Doctor’s head would tilt back, leaving his neck exposed to the Master’s mouth, his own mouth open, panting and he’d gaspwhimperwhisper Master-- “What the devil is going on here?”

The Master’s head snapped up and around, his eyes wide, to find the Doctor staring at him. The cover the ventilation shaft just above him rattled on the ground beside his feet, gave a few last, unrushed spins, then stilled. The Doctor’s expression was somewhat difficult to parse. Right hand idiotically still clenched around his erection, the Master reached out with his left to flick off the humiliating recording. He coughed. He wanted distinctly to fall into a black hole and to never have to look the Doctor in the face again.

The Doctor crossed the length of the room and sat down on the control panel, somehow managing to avoid the knobby bits. “Well.” He flicked off the low drone of Jo’s CCTV feed, which the Master had entirely forgotten. “I think we’d better have a chat.”

The Master, more embarrassed than he’d thought it possible to be, and convinced he was about to be given a patronizing lecture that managed to convey exactly how pathetic the Doctor thought he— _this_ —was, glared bloody murder at the Doctor. He was wondering where his blaster had gotten to: he could shoot the Doctor, no matter how fond he was of this version, and laugh dismissively at the Doctor’s strange memory-clouding regeneration-trauma if the Doctor so much as hinted at remembering this. And so the Doctor’s “would you like some help with that?” came as an entire surprise.

The Master realized, glancing quickly down at the still-undaunted erection in his hand, that the CCTV wasn’t all he’d forgotten in the last few minutes. “ _What?_ I—” the Master flushed, expression hectic and furious, wrenched his hand away, “I was simply—”

The Doctor arched his eyebrow and waited a moment for this one. The Doctor had the greatest respect for the Master’s inventiveness under pressure, but doubted even he could squirm out of this one. Sure enough, the Master sputtered without alighting on even the feeblest excuse. Taking pity, the Doctor knelt down in front of him and placed his own hand where the Master’s had just been.

“Like this, was it, old chap?” He took up the same pace and rhythm. The part of the Master’s brain that hadn’t at all objected to the Doctor’s arrival scooted back to the fore. He bucked up into the Doctor’s firm grip with an embarrassing alacrity. The Doctor encouraged the Master’s trousers down and out of the way.

“Or was it more like this, in your mind?” The Doctor leaned forward, and his tongue scraped the Master's cock, just under the head, which caused the Master to make a small, quick noise. The Doctor suckled at it, and the Master made a rather more embarrassing long, drawn out noise. “Like that, then,” the Doctor concluded.

“Not quite,” the Master managed.

The Doctor drew back and stroked his hands along the insides of the Master’s thighs, the Master’s tension buzzing beneath his fingertips. He kissed and then lightly bit at the skin above the femoral vein. If he sank his teeth in just here, the Master could bleed out in his hands, and the Master’s blood pulsed with that heady knowledge. The Doctor lathed the delicate half-moons of his own precise, light bite marks with his tongue. “Well, what _were_ you doing with me, Master?”

The Master’s breath caught at the unexpected touch of his name, so long withheld. “Would you believe me if I said I was innocently enjoying the pleasure of your company?”

The Doctor smirked. He drew his fingers up over the Master’s navel and circumnavigated it with an idle nail before breaking off to ruffle his hair. “Of course not.”

The Master chuckled. “No, I didn’t seriously imagine you would.” He smoothed his hair, erasing the evidence of the Doctor’s assault. “Well since you’ve shown such an interest—”

“Mm,” the Doctor agreed, a thumb pressing at the join of the Master’s jaw and ear, just to see if it was still as sensitive as it had been in his first body. He found it was.

“I was fucking you rather enthusiastically over that control panel to your left.”

The Doctor arched a speculative eyebrow and glanced over at the panel. “Rather a lot of uncomfortable knobby elements, don’t you think?”

“Oh, you didn’t mind. Too overcome by the moment, as it were.”

“I imagine so, but I still think you could have chosen somewhere more comfortable to fantasize about. Listen, can’t you take me violently in a bed or something?” The scanner bleeped irritably, and the Doctor stood up and glanced down at it, no better pleased by what he found there. “Well--we appear to have company. A Draconian cruiser?” He glanced up at the Master. “Friends of yours?”

The Master looked startled and affronted. “Certainly not!” He was abruptly keener to escape the authorities than interested in having sex at this exact moment.

“Then you won’t mind if I just avoid having to explain to them why we’re in Draconian space?” The Doctor keyed a course-change absently, and the computer speedily corrected to follow the Master’s previously calculated astro-navigational parameters---typical of the Master. Of course the perfectionist had gone and done the thing by hand, when really the computer could have managed well enough if left to its own devices.

“By all means, Doctor.” The Master waved an ironic gracious hand.

“You didn’t _really_ want to go to the Ogron home-world, did you?”

“I did actually,” the Master admitted wryly as the Doctor turned back to face him. “The Daleks have my TARDIS, you see, and I’m afraid they insisted on taking my poor girl’s ransom out in trade.”

The Doctor winced. “You might have told me. I would have helped you, if you’d asked instead of lumbering in and—”

“Selflessly rescuing you from prison?” the Master asked, archly.

“Ah.” The Doctor rubbed the scruff of his neck. It was possible he’d overlooked one or two important details, and possible he seemed both callous and oblivious as a result.

“Indeed, ah.”

“You know I really had no idea your, er, feelings on this whole situation were still so—” he cut himself off, feeling julienned by the Master’s knife-like glare.

“ _Obviously_ , Doctor.”

The Doctor coughed, rubbing the back of his neck a bit more, as if he were trying to put a shine on it. “My dear fellow, you did say you wanted to kill me. And you made some convincing efforts in that direction.”

“Convincing?” the Master sputtered. “Do you seriously expect me to believe you have no idea how easily I might have killed you?” It was no great claim of prowess on his part, simply an admission that one clean, city-destroying bomb, a handful of hypnotized snipers, the introduction of any of a thousand immediately-effective biological agents, and if he’d valued the Doctor’s absence more highly than his presence, that might have been the end of that. _Naturally_ he wanted the Doctor dead, wanted to do it with his own bare hands! Grumbled as much to anyone who’d listen. But then so did half the irate spouses of his acquaintance, of any species. “Or do you mean to tell me that your opinion about Earth is accurately represented by the way you moaned about being marooned there, rather than by your score of attempts to keep it from harm? If that were true, the Axos fiasco would have ended _quite_ differently.”

The Doctor opened his mouth to point out the times the Master had suited action to words, and closed it with a light ‘hm’ when the immediate counterargument--his being alive and present in the room to cast aspersions, the Master having turned up on Earth in the first place--presented themselves to him. “Listen—”

“Yes, in point of fact _I_ do listen.” The Master crossed his arms over his chest.

“I’ve a working TARDIS now, as you’re no doubt aware.”

“I am.”

“So any arrangement we might come to wouldn’t be about that.”

The Master arched an eyebrow. “Arrangement, Doctor?”

“Yes. To put it bluntly, what will you give me for me?” At the Master’s slightly affronted look, the Doctor knelt back down again, kissed him lightly, and drew inches back. “I couldn’t really persuade myself that you had any notion of that kind,” the Doctor admitted. He brought his mouth to the Master’s again, lips moving against his. “Though I did hope you might.”

The Master sighed. “I suppose you want tedious declarations of my willingness to abide by your sickeningly limited moral scruples. Hardly appropriate tokens, but if you insist. We can broker the terms of the engagement after you follow through on that intriguing suggestion you made about a proper bed.” As it turned out, his confidence was tragically misplaced. They never got as far as the bed that day (though the Master hardly minded). Neither did the Doctor remember to tell Jo it was all right to stop talking, though he was excessively sorry about the horrible laryngitis she suffered for the entirety of the next week. She was still grumbling hoarsely about the insensitivity of Time Lords and men generally when the Time Lords dropped her back at UNIT HQ.  



End file.
